by Jenny Old
I opened the door gingerly and peered inside. All was intact, but the overwhelming smell of eggnog was nauseating. However, we did sleep well and Ben remained secure in his top bunk.
Ready for an early start, Rick and I went through our checklist.
‘We’re getting the hang of this caravanning,’ I cheerfully called.
Spoken too soon. As we slowly drove forward, we felt a terrible juddering.
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘Oh no, I forgot to put the stabilisers up.’
Two flapping, sad-looking pieces of iron dangled limply at the back of the van.
‘We’ll need to have them welded before we leave.’
So much for our early start.
Back on the road, we rewrote our checklist. We were learning…gradually.
The remainder of the trip was uneventful. The exercise proved to be economical, and the boys loved the adventure. We enjoyed pulling up under the trees for smoko while letting the boys ride their bikes and burn some energy. It was a very pleasant time for the four of us, and the following six weeks with our families revived us for the year ahead.
True to his promise, Rick employed a governess for the 1978 school year. It was a relief that Anthony—and I—had survived so far in the schoolroom, but we didn’t want to push our luck.
Rick heard of a government-funded group training scheme that allowed the wages of unemployed young people to be subsidised as an incentive to remove them from welfare. Under this scheme, he was able to employ two jackeroos and a governess, Anne, after interviews in Brisbane.
Because Anne was the only applicant, I didn’t meet her until our departure from Brisbane when I introduced her to the boys. She seemed enthusiastic, and I was looking forward to a year out of the schoolroom. We headed for home in our caravan, and Anne followed in her little car.
I did have reservations in my heart: handing over the job of teaching my son to an inexperienced young woman concerned me. I reassured myself that teaching wasn’t working for me and I could still keep an eye on lessons. But I also wondered how I’d cope with someone else living in my tiny house full-time. Governesses were treated as a family member, so I’d no longer have the luxury of my home being for the family alone. It wouldn’t be easy.
I was out of the schoolroom and back to the cooking. Anthony and I were friends again, and now I was able to enjoy Ben’s company more. He was my little shadow and into constant mischief.
The new jackeroos arrived. Their first job was to clear the vegetable garden. This was a test, and they suffered from gastric upsets, quite common for people not used to the oppressive heat. They were certainly a different breed to the tough local bushies.
Mustering commenced after Easter rather disastrously. On the first ride out, one of the new jackeroos went missing, last seen about six kilometres from home. After many hours his horse returned home: not a good sign. The men searched all morning without success, which meant Rick had to contact the SES and organise a search helicopter.
After hours of searching, our new jackeroo was found—unharmed, disorientated and confused—walking in the opposite direction to home.
The next morning at breakfast, the other new jackeroo asked, ‘Do we have to go mustering again today? I thought we finished yesterday.’
I exchanged a look with the local stockmen.
‘You’ve got a lot to learn, mate,’ was their wry reply.
Over the following days, one new jackeroo had his face smashed with a gate in the yards, while Anne, who was keen to have a ride, fell from her horse and dislocated her shoulder. My nursing training was coming in handy.
‘Do you think the subsidy is worth it?’ I asked Rick in a private moment.
‘Possibly not,’ he muttered.
And I was now cooking for thirteen people, plus visitors.
Anthony rushed into the kitchen after his SOTA lesson one day. ‘I’ve got two parts in the school play, Mum.’
‘Great, what are you to be?’ I asked, shuddering at the thought of double costuming.
‘I’m Ducky-Doodle and Cocky-Locky.’
‘Sounds fun.’
Anthony was soon transformed into Ducky-Doodle with a cardboard bill, webbed feet, a yellow shirt and scarf. I could only manage one costume.
He took his roles very seriously, and I was amazed at how well he handled the two characters with different voices. Remember, this drama was carried out over the two-way radio. At one stage he had to have a conversation with himself.
‘Wow, you did a great job, well done!’ a proud mother exclaimed, hugging him.
While standing on the back verandah, I put the ingredients for my daily bread mix into my super-mixer, but it refused to start. I noticed the fuse was out on the box above and, without thinking it was out for a reason, I put the fuse back and pushed the start button. As I lifted my head to pull the mix out, my head brushed a live wire.
Rick had been working on the switchboard, leaving the fuses out on purpose to go to the shed to collect something. I woke up, still rolling, about a dozen metres away with a dreadful metallic taste in my mouth.
The generator had slowed, and Rick realised something was wrong. He found his wife flattened against a fence.
‘What happened?’ I asked, confused.
‘Did you put a fuse back?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why would you do that when I’d taken it out for a reason?’
‘I had to get the bread done,’ I replied defensively.
Rick pulled me to my feet and helped me to a chair. ‘Do you feel all right?’ I’d never seen him so concerned.
‘What happened? I don’t remember a thing.’
‘You’ve just had 450 volts through your body.’
I was impressed. ‘Well, I won’t be depressed for a while, will I?’ I quipped.
It wasn’t long before the next emergency. The new jackeroos were still causing us grief. One of the experienced men galloped home from the muster with the news that the same jackeroo who’d been lost had now been thrown from his horse and badly injured. Rick was in Mount Isa in the ute. I drove the Toyota over the rough terrain to the injured man.
The patient was in shock, moaning loudly, and on examination he appeared to have intense abdominal pain. He was a big man and had fallen heavily on the hard ground. I thought he had multiple injuries and fractures. I had concerns about possible spinal injuries. I called the Mount Isa flying doctor who was unable to assist as the plane was being serviced, so I called the Cairns flying doctor for an evacuation. I administered morphine and tied the patient’s legs together. With the help of the other men, I lifted the heavy patient onto a mattress on the tray of the Toyota. I stabilised him as much as possible and then drove very, very slowly over the rough roads.
When the flying doctor arrived, I was surprised and delighted to see that both the pilot and the doctor were women. Following her initial examination, the doctor agreed with my assessment: possible fractured femur with nerve involvement, broken ribs, broken collarbone, possible back injuries and possible internal bleeding. I was relieved to place him in her capable hands. The patient was stabilised and flown to Cairns Base Hospital for assessment.
Five days later, this same jackeroo was discharged from hospital and returned to McAllister. The X-rays and tests revealed he had no fractures, only severe bruising. I couldn’t believe it.
‘He should be an actor,’ I muttered to Rick. ‘He’d win an Oscar.’
Much to our relief, the inexperienced young men returned to Brisbane soon after this incident.
26
Light at the End of the Tunnel
The Mount Isa School of the Air had an active parents’ and citizens’ group. We held monthly meetings over the radio with intelligent and meaningful discussion on ways to improve the education of our children. Many fundraising events were planned, but Chris McDonald and I decided to go one step further.
We formed the Isolated Children’s Parents Association (ICPA) Bran
ch of the Air, the second of its kind in Australia. I was vice president, and Chris, treasurer. The support of this association was to play an important role in our lives. We held monthly on-air meetings, and the interest and membership were vibrant.
The state conference was held annually in regional towns in order to bring the politicians and education hierarchy to the bush so they could see and hopefully understand some of the problems of isolation. The federal conference was also held annually and is still a powerful lobby group that holds the respect of politicians.
After a great deal of lobbying and a long struggle, the government acknowledged the contribution we bush mothers made to teaching our children, and that we required some financial assistance. We managed to obtain grants to help with travel and living-away-from-home expenses for mothers who’d moved to small rural towns so their children could attend school: a move that split their families, an enormous sacrifice for the sake of education.
Our enthusiastic branch would go on to host a state conference. Rick and I were two of the co-convenors, an amazing experience. Rick was a member of the executive committee for many years and is a life member of the association.
During 1978, the Beef Crash was still with us.
We were investigating many avenues for keeping McAllister afloat—loans, grants, anything that could see us through. We hadn’t drawn a wage for three years. I’d made our clothes on my little Singer sewing machine, even Rick’s work clothes. Thankfully we had our own beef, milk, vegetables and fruit, and the dreaded home-brew. We survived on our meagre savings.
Those years were unsettling, but Rick’s optimism helped me stay positive.
We’d thrown ourselves totally into the development of McAllister. It was our home and where we wanted to stay. But how much longer could we carry on?
The other shareholders were vulnerable as they had assets and property. Rick and I had nothing more to lose. Following a great deal of communication with shareholders and banks, we all made a decision.
Rick and I would take over the entire debt, which was formidable, plus the accumulated interest. In return we’d be the sole owners of McAllister. This removed the risk of the shareholders losing their assets to the bank. Of course, we took an enormous risk. But we both wanted to stay and ride the crisis.
This was a sad time in many ways, as we’d enjoyed a very satisfactory partnership with all the shareholders. I sympathised with them having to make such a tough decision, as they’d invested in the property when the future looked bright.
Timing, or luck, was with us. Rick’s father had always offered to help us financially, but we’d refused his generosity. This time, we accepted his offer to lend us the interest payments to get the bank off our backs. The beef market slowly improved, and we were very happy that we could repay him in full within six months.
One day, after one of his frequent radio chats with Zanda, Anthony came to me with a request that every little boy makes at some stage. ‘Mum, can I have a puppy? Zanda has a puppy he wants to give me. Please? Pleeease?’
‘No, we already have two dogs, plus the working dogs. We don’t need another one.’
Anthony looked crestfallen but not too sad. I was suspicious because he didn’t normally capitulate so easily.
The following weekend at the Normanton Rodeo, a stockman approached me with a puppy on a lead. ‘Hi, missus, Zanda asked me to give this puppy to you, for Anthony.’
Did he now?
‘Are you sure?’ I asked. ‘I told Anthony we couldn’t take the puppy.’ But my words were weak as I looked into the chocolate-brown eyes of an adorable little female pup.
‘Sure am. Zanda said she was for Anthony.’
‘Anthony…?’ I looked at him, but he was busy patting the puppy and avoiding eye contact at all costs. I had no choice but to accept graciously.
The pup—a bull Arab–Rhodesian ridgeback–red cattle dog cross—was to become a much-loved pet. She was named Sally, after Anthony’s School of the Air teacher, and remained his faithful mate for many, many years.
‘You and Zanda are a formidable pair when you want something,’ I said to him. ‘You can explain to your father.’
Anthony just grinned at me. Never trust a little boy who wants his own puppy.
Chris and I exchanged children for the school holidays. Ben stayed with Chris, and Susie and Zanda came to us.
I loved having these great little mates to stay. We enjoyed picnics, fishing in creeks, visiting the yards and mustering camps. They didn’t require any entertaining. Every morning when I was preparing and kneading the bread dough, they lined up at my kitchen bench to create their own rolls for lunch. They loved shaping their creations.
The inseparable trio formed a club called the Rangers: an exclusive club with a closed membership, badges and a password, meaning Ben and James would never be accepted.
I was sorry when the holidays ended and the children returned home.
It was around this time that Jim McKulkin entered our lives: a wizened, tiny, slightly hunched man with stubble and thick wavy hair. His eyes were blue and twinkling; his mouth always had a hand-rolled cigarette hanging from the side. He exuded enormous energy, a character with a sharp wit and Ben’s special mate, as Noel had been to Anthony.
The magic words I heard were: ‘Mate, I love cooking.’
‘Did you say you love cooking?’ I asked incredulously.
‘Yeah, mate. Love it!’
I had never heard such sweet words before. It was irrelevant that he wasn’t a very good cook—he was willing.
From the day he arrived, Jim cooked breakfast and the main meal for the men. I still baked the smokos, puddings and bread, but my daily load was considerably lightened.
Jim’s sharp wit and quips kept us amused. Here are some of my favourites:
‘Always walk quickly and look busy, even if you’re not.’ His advice for new staff when Rick was around.
‘You’re as handy as a hip pocket in a singlet.’
‘Don’t argue with one who knows, boy, don’t argue with one who knows.’ That one was for Ben.
‘Wouldn’t it tear the crotch out of your nightie.’
He was a true bushie, and Ben adored him. We all did.
Jim was with us for many years but, sadly, the ravages of alcoholism finally forced him to leave. It was tragic to see him accumulate possessions—a vehicle, a boat, radios—then, after twelve months without a drink, go to town for a bender and have to sell all his hard-earned treasures for a pittance at the bar.
The cycle continued.
The initiative of bush people to create entertainment and raise money for worthwhile causes never ceased to amaze me. They were always willing to support functions that involved the family, as there were no babysitters. And bush children enjoyed these events as much as adults and were confident in adult company because of this socialising.
Rick and I, along with a hard-working and enthusiastic local committee, decided to hold a family sports day at the Burke and Wills to raise funds for the Royal Flying Doctor Service. Another of Rowan and Judy’s children, Bloss, had joined Peter and Judy in managing the roadhouse. We spent months planning and preparing for the sports day, which would feature footraces, horse events and a dance.
We pulled it off.
Our horse race, the inaugural Burke and Wills Cup, was won by the only horse and rider who managed to cross the finishing line; other competitors emerged from the bush for quite some time after the race had ended, their mounts in charge.
Hundreds of people—managers, owners, stockmen, cooks and children—danced enthusiastically to the music of the Jam Tins, a Mount Isa band, into the wee hours. In fact, the band was still playing as the first customer drove in for fuel that morning.
It was a time to celebrate. The Gulf was finally awakening from the nightmare of the Beef Crash. This fundraising function was to be the first of many held at the Burke and Wills.
Now that beef prices had slowly climbed and interest rate
s had dropped to a more manageable level, we were able to continue with development at McAllister.
I had a long list. The priority was an extension to our tiny house: a schoolroom, a bedroom with an ensuite for the governess, and a tiny office for Rick. He found a builder with a family who were happy to live in a caravan until the work was complete. It was exciting to watch the progress.
But Anthony missed seeing a lot of it, as he’d been invited to spend Christmas with my family in Deniliquin, then to visit Rick’s at Palm Beach. Both pairs of grandparents felt a break away from the heat would be a good change for him; and, being a shy child, he might benefit from socialising with his cousins.
This wasn’t quite so exciting for the three left behind. It was very quiet without him, and we missed him terribly, especially Ben.
However, I didn’t miss the constant fighting. Keeping that in mind, we decided to pay the builder for an extra job: Anthony would have his own bedroom on the back verandah. A surprise for his homecoming in seven weeks—and surely a way to stop the fights.
We celebrated Ben’s third birthday on the seventh of December, followed by a quiet Christmas with Marg, Ted and Pete at Lorraine. In the meantime, Anthony was enjoying time with his cousins and the rest of the family. He wrote a letter to Ben:
Dear Ben,
I miss you,
Love Anthony
I vowed to show him this evidence if the fights recommenced on his return.
Another eventful year drew to a close. We’d become the sole owners of our beloved McAllister with its accumulated debt. We hoped and prayed that beef prices would continue to rise, enabling us to placate the bank and carry on with our dream. And in seven weeks we had a beautiful extension to our house, including Anthony’s new room.
‘I know he’ll love it,’ I exclaimed to Ben.
We drove to Mount Isa to meet Anthony. Excitement was running high.
‘There he is!’ Ben screamed.
A tiny dot in the sky transformed into the jet, bringing our boy home. At last the familiar snowy head appeared, led by the protective air hostess.